Nothing Wrong When a Song Ends in Minor Key
by Alexa Dean
Summary: But Sam does regret. All he has to do is look at Dean and feel the burn: see the mapped-out landscape of Dean's indiscretions spread out over him and breathing into his face (slash/pwp). Companion piece to Taste for a Well-Made Mistake. Can stand alone.


:::

"_No, I'm not fucking alright!_ "

Headlights flicker through the foggy window and spark his brother's eyes from green to hawk-gold and back again. Aware of Dean's hands on him, steel-tipped, and moon-pale on his shoulders, Sam can't bring himself to push them off, can't ignore the grip of Dean's knees on his hips.

"He's a killer, Dean! And you're protecting him! You lied for him, lied to me— and now you're fucking him!" Sam's near gagging with the effort it's taking to keep his mouth from running.

Dean's eyes narrow and heat in a bad way, violet shadows claiming his cheeks, the hollow of his throat; hand flexing over Sam's chest, teeth catching the scant light.

"You know this story as well as I do—" Sam continues, unable to jump the train wreck he can see coming "-and you're fucked in the head if you don't see how this is Ruby all over again."

"Like you'd know," Dean says, looking down the slightly crooked line of his nose, red tongue covering his top lip thoughtfully, as though considering Sam.

No way he doesn't know what he's doing to Sam, sitting naked and feverish in Sam's lap; smelling of wild things, like weeds and tree mast and spilt blood. No way he doesn't know what he's doing to him with his words.

What Sam should really be doing is getting Dean off him. Screwed as the situation is, it's the most right Sam has felt in a long time. So he's good as is.

"How'd you find me?" Fingers run down Sam's cheek, the line of his jaw, instinctively assessing for damage.

"I didn't." Sam allows himself a spiteful smile at that. "I was tracking Benny. Cracked your passcode. Took his number right off your cellphone and tracked him to this place."

That earns Sam an eyebrow twitch. "Touch e."

Sam can't say he counts this as a truce, much less a victory. In fact, he would rather have a do over where he does end up with Benny's head in a bag.

Slowly, Dean dips to crawl over Sam's chest, dick half-hard and bumping the bare skin of Sam's stomach where his jeans slipped low and his shirt bunched up; easy as you please, like he isn't bare-assed naked and unarmed.

"You've shown me the door more than once, Sam," he fills the cup of Sam's panting mouth with his words, hovering like an unusually menacing hummingbird. "Fuck if I know why it's taken me so long to take a hint." Dean pauses, eyes glancing over Sam's face. "But what I don't get is why the second someone else just might want me around you lose your fucking shit?"

"It's not about that!" Sam snarls into Dean's face, fighting desire with anger. "You know it fucking isn't."

Dean looks smug anyway. "You don't know shit about me and Benny."

It's quite possible Sam's brain short-circuited while "losing his shit", because he has no inkling why his voice continues on without him, serene and reasonable-sounding and not at all like the one flailing about in his head.

"You're forever risking your life for no apparent reason," he breathes quietly, sure that Dean can see he's seething underneath the surface with the need to touch and surround and of course, the overwhelming impulse to crush the ever-living shit out of his brother.

Sam isn't grasping at straws. It has been eating at him for as long as he can remember. It's exactly what stretched them far enough to hurt and thin enough to break, what sent Dean barreling into another realm. Like always, Dean will put himself last and his causes first and not bat-a-lash at jumping into the line of fire, with or without Sam.

"And you know what? I'm done with it- your martyrdom and your self-worth issues," Sam says, resolutely guiltless. "You never once stopped to consider how it made me feel. Well, fuck you long and hard Dean." Sam should really shut up now. Unfortunately, he's just as prone to ignoring his own advice as Dean is. "Given another chance I would pick Amelia over you any day."

What Sam expects is a blow. What he doesn't expect is to see the moon mirrored in the curve of Dean's lips, bright and remote and utterly without warmth.

"You think Amelia would have stood by you through all the fuckin' shit you put me through—" he says with an arrogant-ass tilt to his smile. "The visions, addictions, hallucinations?" Dean's eyes darken, pupils huge as melon seeds, irises sucked down to a thin ring like a lifesaver. "How do you think she woulda handled it all? 'Cause I'm willing to put money on it that she doesn't know a goddamn thing about you."

"She doesn't need to," Sam retorts, determined not to look pissed and caught out. "She knows what's important."

Dean has the nerve to look sympathetic and Sam's heart twists to see his brother's mouth at once clever and cruel, looking so much like a fresh wound: white bone of teeth, lips like shiny-red curls of flesh. He pointedly doesn't think about how they got that way.

"You want me gone?" Dean's lips travel over Sam's ear to the downy hairs of his hairline, rocking slow against Sam and unapologetically hard. "Fine. We'll go our separate ways, but you can't tell me what to do. You lost that right when you figured you were better off playing house and hung me out to dry."

He punctuates his point with a snap of his hips and Sam tenses in response, face and cock tingling with the sudden push of blood and adrenaline at his brother's touch. If Sam could sink through the floor, he would. Like this, they're too close for lies and half-truths.

Dean chuckles, going suddenly still. "Thought fucking your brother was beneath you now that you found a pretty girl to make an honest man outta you."

It isn't fair how cool and collected Dean is when Sam can't do anything but shake and shiver with the restraint it's taking not to take. But it's always been a lost cause between them, Sam only ever set out to become the sort of person right for his brother, because when his hands come up against Dean's apple-cheeked ass the fit is unerring as ever.

Yet.

Yet he doesn't recognize this body. A body he should know as well as his own—leaner, paler, penny-sized freckles clearing to tiny dots from a year spent keeping out of sight. He should know the dimensions of his brother, the weight and feel of him in his hands and for the first time since Stanford, he doesn't. There are more scars on him now than Sam can account for.

Sam finds himself looking at his brother warily. Feeling strange and helpless, like that long ago day he found Dean's voice had changed and how suddenly there seemed to be more of him when there were only minor differences, how Sam's perception of his brother changed with him, that sense of dread and excitement of repressed desire, although Sam had been too young to recognize it for what it was.

"Funny, and here I thought you just might have standards," Sam says, a little breathless with want and unease and it's enough to flip Sam from horny to pissed off in a flat second, realizing that Dean is playing him like he has countless marks, using a calculated show of vulnerability: pink cheeks and lowered eyes, nervous tonguing of lips.

You like what you see? Dean's saying without words, meaning none of it. Take what you want, no strings. No regrets.

But Sam does regret. All he has to do is look at Dean and feel the burn: see the mapped-out landscape of Dean's indiscretions spread out over him and breathing into his face.

So be it. Sam can't help what comes out of his mouth.

"I had my reasons for Ruby, but you, not only are you a hypocrite, but just another pathetic, lonely slut. Always had trouble keeping your legs shut to anyone who would give you the time of day. Cass knew. It's why he wouldn't touch you— all that pretty packaging and nothing worth keeping inside," Sam's words gain momentum when Dean flinches, but he doesn't for a moment believe it to be sincere.

"Couldn't even say no to your own brother. You should have, Dean. You were older. You knew better. It was your duty to make sure I wouldn't fuck up," Sam continues with a wry smirk. "Oh, but you did. You let me. You did and you know it. Couldn't get enough of my big dick in you once you had it. But then again I don't think you were ever really particular. Bet you woulda fucked Dad if he let y—

Dean yanks Sam's hair so hard Sam shouts from whiplash, but Sam is just as quick to savagery, jamming fingers into Dean's ass- not nearly slick enough, and stupidly tight, even with the royal fucking Benny had been giving him. Then again, Sam knows first-hand just how resilient Dean is.

"You fuck!" Dean hisses into his face, eyes shut tight, teeth clenched tighter. The picture of agony. And damn if it doesn't drive Sam nuts just as it had that very first time, when riding the divide of his brother's ass had stopped being enough.

Let me put it in you.

Except it was never a request. Sam remembers resting too much weight on Dean's back, thrusting too soon, too rough, too clumsy in his eagerness; Dean shouting into the pillow, hands flexing ineffectually against the tufted sheets. Wait and stop and slow and Sam and finally ah-ah-ah, Sam riding high with the knowledge their Dad was only a thin wall and half-a-beer away from hearing them: catching Sam pounding Dean inchoate and hoarse.

It feels just like that right now. That thrill, the sudden need to express ownership, the hope that Benny isn't too far off to hear them. Sam wanting to communicate how fucking Dean doesn't make him special at all, just as stupid as Sam.

Sam smiles wide, huffs a shuddering laugh. Spreads four fingers inside his brother and covers the grease-dark smudge marring the burnt-sugar coating of freckles on Dean's shoulder with his mouth: not wanting to stare at it anymore. Reminded what brought them both to this. Whatever this is.

He thinks of Benny anyway (that fucker!) and he does what Benny (thieving prick) failed to do and breaks the skin. Dean jerks violently at that, cracking Sam in the ribs with a panicky right hook.

"Let go!" Dean howls when Sam doesn't so much as budge, digging his fingernails between Sam's ribs. "Lemme go!"

Too much fun having Dean squirm and pump against him to try and get away from his fingers, his mouth, Sam smiles around his mouth of flesh, smearing blood and spit around with his tongue before letting go, fingers searching out the core of Dean.

Sam feels likes he's drowning: the sharp stink of sex everywhere, a dark smell wound so completely in every memory Sam has ever had of his brother that he has never been able to fuck anyone without thinking of him, however fleetingly.

To say Sam resents Dean would be an understatement.

"Is this how you like it now? Need it to hurt? I can make it hurt—" Sam says as he follows the open wedge of Dean's ass with his other hand, damp with sweat and little else, to the crinkled edges of him, forcing him to take more than Sam can imagine anyone ever wanting to; fingers of both hands slotting together inside.

Immediately, Dean jackknifes upright on a sob, mouth gone slack and bloodless with surprise; hands scrabbling back to overlap Sam's, enclosing his knuckles, but unable to pull them off; brows pressed together and eyes squeezed shut.

Sam knows how much the stretch of it burns on a dick alone and can't imagine what it must be like on six fingers without prep. Yet his brother is not only hard, but dripping onto Sam. So, Sam thinks, it's not like he's torturing his brother.

"Guess that answers that."

It does. It really does. And no one ever did it for Sam quite like this, driven him to sadism, even Ruby, who'd been too small and human-looking for Sam to become truly comfortable hurting her. Demon or no.

Fascinated, Sam tugs at Dean, pulling him apart at the seam on crooked fingers, heavy and hot with the feeling of it, but hotter still with the lack of sympathy, the freedom it lends.

Hissing through the pain, Dean's head rolls forward in an eerily broken way, dick spilling over with precome, leaving pretty trails like glass filaments along the veiny length.

Sam's hard in his jeans, leaking long enough by now to get his boxers uncomfortably tacky, cool in places not warmed by his cock. It does nothing to keep him from pushing up into Dean's taint, watching his brother's sac swell against the mound of his erection with each pitch of Sam's hips, naked and vulnerable and pink as a baby bird.

Sam thinks he could come like this. Just like this. Just by rubbing off on his brother, thinking of coming in long milky ropes all over his hole and working it in with the head of his softening dick and the points of his fingers.

He doesn't give Dean the chance to think, carelessly fucking his fingers in and urging Dean toward his open mouth, knees finding the hollows of Sam's armpits; intimate and sunset-colored skin taking up Sam's entire field of vision. Perfect if not for the traces of Benny everywhere: bruises, crisscrossed scabs, crescent shape of human teeth.

It's sweet and painful like remembering, and full of yearning, because it isn't enough to have Dean skipping along his tongue, touching the inside of his cheeks, and filling his mouth. Sam wants everything back that Dean has taken from him with his words and actions.

And it doesn't help Sam's helplessness to know he's painfully out of practice, the angle is wrong and he'd forgotten how thick Dean is, how hard it'd always been to cover his teeth without breaking seal.

Becomes impotent with gritty images — song of Dean teasing Sam about such things as having too much of a good thing, like a double-fudge, chocolate-chip cheesecake or something, until Sam made him eat his words — and furious at the inability to reconcile who they were with what they've become. All the tender reverence and humor of their youth lost to the wariness and nasty accusations gathered over the years.

Sam chokes on his anger more than he does on Dean's dick, gripping tight, taking him and making him take it with as much as he can get away with, punishment for punishment. He knows he's won when Dean relaxes and falls forward, curled in on himself like a cat, surrendering to the imperfect rhythm and swing set by Sam's hands on him.

It's enough for the moment to confront Dean like this, split him open and bury him, on his fingers and in his mouth. Strip away his masks and his control and even his ridiculous affectation of wounded pride.

So, Sam is enjoying himself more than he should be. Moaning and slipping a hand away to palm himself through his jeans, along the seam, watching Dean watch him, intently. The muscles of Dean's ass tremble. His grip is tight on Sam's wrist. Sam pushes forward in spite of it. Can picture how tender and red Dean must be, how sore, and the images make Sam's mouth water, makes him hungry and unashamed.

And maybe it was all those times Dean wouldn't let Sam go down on him even when it had been Sam to ask for it, that made Sam hungry for his dick like he is now, desperate for it, for the saltwater taste of him and his half-closed eyes. Sucking and licking and groaning and pulling out gusts of stuttering pants from his brother with his turn-around tongue and languidly soft mouth.

It's always like this with them, even when it's bad, when there's nothing but hurt between them. Makes it so good they've ruined each other, sullied all others. God help them. God keep all those stupid enough to come between them.

The unfairness of it makes Sam's eyes sting with tears more than the occasional gag of too-deep or too-full. Where's the free will in that: in them?

Dean's soft, little gasps do nothing but rile Sam up, fuck him up with want so brutal it's like a kick in the balls, and Sam has to undo and unzip and peel away, pubic hair crackling, cock springing forward, a grateful wanton shape in his hand. He's got himself by the crown, pinched tight and thumbing his slit, smearing the bead of slick there.

Dean doesn't seem to care if he has less fingers in his ass than he did when they started this mindfuck, leans on one hand and uses the other to find Sam's in the dark, fingers sliding between Sam's knuckles on Sam's dick to jack him, rough, quick jerks. Tips his head to meet Sam's eyes looking back and Sam is as quick to lie with his eyes as Dean had been, because what Sam's doing now—fucking his mouth on Dean—isn't about duty or love, but something hidden-away and disquieting enough to hide even from himself.

Dean rubs and pulls at Sam's dick, fucks his mouth and fucks himself on Sam's fingers and it's probably hotter than anything Sam can remember doing for the past year. And isn't that some shit? Isn't that exactly what's wrong with them, or the whole fucking world for that matter, that Sam can still love this when he hates his brother so completely he wishes it were possible to live without him? Instead, he keeps sucking on Dean's dick until all he can taste is his own spit.

Sam's determined not to come though, works his mouth quicker, tighter, wetter. Knows he's almost got Dean when Dean's hand falters on Sam's dick and he pushes back onto Sam's hand to get away from Sam's face and Sam is able to sink his fingers in deep enough to jab his prostate and what Sam gets is exactly what he set out for.

Dean comes with an all-encompassing, joyless sound too heavy for the air to carry.

There are ropes of it. Sam catches some in his mouth and on his cheek, but manages to bring up a hand for the rest. Follows Dean as he falls away to roll onto his back on the floor, knees akimbo, face tucked into the crook of his elbow. Spent. Done.

Sam is far from it.

Wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, Sam stops to look. Slicks his dick with his brother's come—still hot—until he's shiny-wet with it, skin dark as fox grapes and skin aflame.

Only Dean does this, gets this—that bottomless, scary, dark feeling in Sam that makes him stupid and reckless and dangerous, homicidal as fuck. Keeps Sam licking his lips over and over like a rabid dog for the taste of his brother and finding only traces.

There are words for Dean and all of them trite. No less true, though.

It's the old argument that gives Sam pause: Dean shouldn't be like this and Sam shouldn't want him to be. But he is on display for Sam, even if it may not be intentional. Here where the dark can't seem to gain hold of his brother, slips off him like black water, collects in the seams between muscles and splits butter-smooth over the blades of his bones, legs invariably splayed, like Dean has magnets in his knees to keep them apart.

And his scent is all over Sam, sharp and masculine. Sam so close, he can feel Dean's warmth as he hobbles forward on his knees, dick an enormous weight in his hand. So stiff he can only handle the softest touch, like it kills him to do it, like it would break him in some irreparable way.

He is all lined up by the time Dean's arm slips away from his face. But Sam isn't looking at Dean's face. Sam is looking down Dean's body and his own, at the space between them where there should be none.

He's got one hand beside Dean's temple and the other on the join of his thigh, feeling nothing but the steady pressure of Dean's resistance; external tension and internal tension equalizing in his gut as the crown breaks through with a pop more felt than heard. He keeps going, through Dean's hands on his shoulders, pushing him back, and the breath escaping Dean like he's giving up the ghost as Sam submerges his dick inch by inch into him, stretched smooth and white around Sam's dick.

Sam trembles, sweat cooling in the hollow of his back, balls pressed snug against Dean's taint and Dean's hands slipping away, all of him slipping away, checking out, maybe.

"God," Sam whispers, "Fuck . . . I can't—"

"You fuck'n better Sam," Dean interrupts, meeting his eyes for the moment, looking for all the world like someone who'd crawled out of a burning building to find the world bombed to rubble, in complete and utter denial.

"Get your rocks off now and get the fuck out—"

Sam knows this is as fucked up as things can possibly get so he doesn't bother giving Dean a chance to finish that sentence; ebbing slowly back, ass tipped up and away from Dean. His brother hisses regardless of care, clamping down around Sam with pain. Sam slams into him, jarring them both—not a smooth ride, but roughly satisfying.

"Yeah," he mutters into Dean's glowing, pink mouth, not touching, sharing breath; words heavy with pleasure and something like sorrow. "Yeah-ugh . . .

He was riding the fine edge of a blade to begin with, so he can't blame himself for losing it— hips moving in shallow pulses then bursting into something discordant and cruel and relentless. His skin buzzes at having Dean underneath him, completely lax and pliant: hands flat on the floor, pretty mouth disfigured by a snarl, thighs spread so wide they no longer brush against Sam's sides, and spent dick gone soft. Sam's mouth covers the long line of Dean's throat, the broken edge of his Adam's apple as he buries secrets into his skin, the hollow of his throat.

Sam knows it's anger making his brother shake, making him refuse him without refusing him outright. And Sam is hotter for it, roughing Dean up and marking him. He digs into him, rubs himself all over him, possessing him however briefly. Dean limp as a ragdoll.

Just thinking about what he'd walked in on makes Sam crazier and angrier, thinking about Benny fucking his brother. It's enough to make Sam hurt Dean, rolling in like a black wave of blurred movement: pistoning hips and sharp-edged teeth and nails. Grains of sand dig into Sam's knees and the balls of his feet, grating his skin. He spreads his toes against the cold wood to anchor himself as he shoves inside.

He can only imagine what it's doing to Dean's back. He can't bring himself to care.

Unable to stop moving, or touching, he mouths at Dean's jaw, traces the line of it with his fingers, touches his mouth and is answered with a derisive turning away and bitten-closed lips. Their chests slide, sweat-slick and sunwarm and Dean warmer still on the inside, like burning, like condemnation. Sam pushes all the air out of his brother in staccato, little pants.

Sam licks the salt from Dean's chest, his breast, a pebbled nipple—nibbles and sucks and works it in his mouth like a worry bead until Dean is arching, the low of his back leaving the ground and lifting Sam into the air with him.

"Don't—" Dean's hands scrabble, knees drawn up and heels pushed into the floor, but Sam has moved on to the other side, sipping at the pink-tipped nub, pinching it between his teeth. Dean whines, breath and body hitching, and he's managed to get the flat of his foot on Sam's thigh, pushing at it, but Sam captures his leg, hooking his arm under the hollow of Dean's knee and pushes it up, opening Dean further, impossibly wide.

"Try and get away," Sam says, voice at odds with the heat burning him up inside. "Try and get away." Taunting, singsong voice. Sam rides it, determined to self-destruct. "This is happening, Dean," he grunts between thrusts. "You want this."

Sam yanks and pinches Dean's spit-slick nipples. Dean's eyes, wide as moons, wider than anything, take up all the light in the room and half his face, his body bending and undulating with Sam- mindless and involuntary fucking—spit and Dean's come drying up between them from the friction of it all.

But if anyone can take a little discomfort, it's Dean and Sam isn't one to allow Dean to show him up. It's not enough to have his hands on Dean's chest, his cock in his ass, to have him writhing and hissing angrily. Sam wants all of him, body and soul. Sam wants Dean's mouth.

He seizes Dean's face in his palms, holding him still and pinning Dean's groin with his hips, thumbs pressed under his jaw and fingers in his hair. Closes his lips over his brother's. Dean's mouth is shut tight to him, but Sam is implacable and persistent.

He forces his tongue into the seam of Dean's lips, pushes his thumbs into his cheeks until he's opening to Sam, until their tongues jostle and their teeth click. Clumsy and furious. Dean makes angry, snarling sounds, but Sam keeps exploring his mouth, rocking slower against him, inside him, feeling him jerk and twitch and leak against his belly; the hair around Sam's navel crackling and snagging Dean's dick.

When Dean clamps down on his lip, Sam is honestly surprised, flinching and drawing back quickly to his knees, instinctive reaction to pain; almost pulling out completely.

"Fuck-" He's bleeding and his lip is throbbing. "FUCK— Fuck'n asshole."

Dean gives him a bloody, self-satisfied smile. "I told you to fuck me and leave. We're nothing to each other, Sam. Nothing."

He thought Dean's proclamations over Benny were hurtful. They're nothing compared to what came out of his mouth just now. The heat on Sam's face rivals the one in his groin. Sam pulls out, teeth grinding together like rusty gears, and manhandles Dean onto his stomach with excessive force.

And Dean is fucking laughing at him. Laughing!

"What's wrong, Sammy?" He turns to look over his shoulder to glance at Sam, giving him a wry once over: slow and heavy-lidded, lashes so long the tips touch his freckled cheeks sweetly, at odds with the vulgar tongue smearing blood over his lips. "Did I hurt your feelings—"

Sam follows the graceful blade of Dean's hips, fingers curling over his hipbones and cut in to wrench Dean onto his knees and his ass back onto Sam's dick. The tension between Dean's shoulders and the sweat across his back hinting at pain.

"You asked for this," Sam near growls. "You're gonna get it."

When Sam withdraws, crown pulling at the warm trap of muscle around his dick, his eyes roll back from the friction. Distantly he feels his arms slip under Dean, his cheek pressing against his spine, dragging him across the floor backward, hands and knees skidding, into Sam's next violent thrust and Sam groans from it, the rubberband feel of him.

Sam thinks about all those other times in the past, when things were different, of warming and filling his brother's belly up from the inside out. Wordless, muffled sounds like a half-remembered song of desire. Thinks about being Dean's first and hoping to be his only, about getting deep in his virgin ass, till he's sliding easier inside of Dean with a jet of precome. Wonders if it had been just another lie.

And it's so different now, Sam feels twelve again, watching the sky go dark, heavy with the knowledge he may never see Dean again, or his Dad.

He can't comprehend how blind his brother is to why Sam didn't look for him, why Sam hid his head in the sand, that Amelia was the only thing that stood between him and the shotgun in the Impala's trunk, a welcome distraction to the hole in his chest. Dean showing up out of nowhere by chance, escaping a near brush with death and so quick to put his life on the line all over again when Sam just gained him back.

Frenzied by hurt and anger, Sam moves into him, through him, all attempts at tenderness and feigned sensitivity dissipating under Dean's scorn. He rattles Dean's body with each vicious punch of hips. Sam's knees bruising and chafing with the strength of their bitterness.

He can't bring himself to care. Doesn't want to, too involved in making Dean hurt, making Dean shout and moan, noises that could easily pass for pleasure as pain. And maybe it is pleasure, because when Sam reaches around to palm Dean's dick, he's half-hard and dripping slick. Twitches violently when Sam closes his hand around the head and twists. Slides up and down, roughly cupping his balls on every other pass, Dean fucking back, trying to avoid overstimulation.

They're both heaving to catch their breath. Sam's lungs burning, hands slipping easily along Dean's dick from sweat. Sweat runs down Sam's back and his thighs, coats his dick where it's disappearing and reappearing out of Dean's sullen pouting hole.

"You're fucking mine!" He bites into Dean's neck. "No one," he rasps, "No one can give it to you like this." He wonders how he's finding the breath to speak. "No one knows you better."

For the first time Sam feels like he has the upper hand and feels powerful with the certainty of it — the truth in his words and how they make Dean suddenly helpless and outraged.

Jerk of Dean's stomach beneath his hand. Sam pushes down on it, low, below the waterline of his navel, thrusting up, deep and thorough.

"Feel that?" he whispers. "That's me in there. Non one's ever gonna get this deep in you."

It all becomes suddenly graphic and obscene, the sticky gleam between them and the burn, both literal and figurative. Dean chokes and gasps and Sam huffs and groans, his free hand over the wet tip of Dean's cock. Matches Dean's unrelenting, cruel grip on him. Sam pumping hungrily and deeply, his arm like an iron bar around Dean's waist, pulling him back.

It's too much, this forced intimacy and Sam can't make sense of it, can't help feeling as opened up as Dean is under him, as raw and sore.

Dean twists around him and spasms, toes curling and back dipping in the middle, dick twitching in Sam's hand and spending weakly as if to spite Dean, even when none of it was meant to get him off. All of it deliberately wrong: the pitch of Sam's hips, the pace, the complete disregard.

Sam is forced to stop moving through Dean's orgasm, halted by every contraction on his dick. He's already close when he rips away and jacks himself— once, twice, and three times—until he's shooting all over the small of Dean's back in thick strands, teeth and neck bared and back bowing, near snapping or collapsing. Headrush or seizure or religious ecstasy. It devastates Sam sweetly and brutally, leaves him feeling blank and insubstantial.

When he regains feeling and sight, he thinks his brother has never been more beautiful, covered in Sam's spunk. Never looked more owned. Tentative, he dips the head of his cock into the slick pooled low on his brother's back and follows the line of his spine to spread over the red, brutalized hole between the parted swell of Dean's cheeks, proprietary.

Sam pushes in, facefirst, licks him from sac, skimming the bridge of his back to the nape of his neck, spreading his mess with lips and tongue in a filthy slide, Dean trembling under him.

He bites into Dean's flesh, sucking hard, making sure it's high enough to be visible above the collar of his jacket. Makes a soft, satisfied sound into the bruise, pleased with the sharp tang of semen in the air. His hands brush over the muscles of his brother's chest.

Dean shakes him off.

"Get the fuck off, before I kick your ass," Dean's voice is even, although his body speaks of other things. His head hangs between his shoulders and he's still on his hands and knees. Sam stills.

Sam doesn't know his place or the name of this game they're playing and it terrifies him. The silence between them is dishonest, promising safety and warmth when Sam realizes it isn't so much a blanket as a net. It's appropriate.

Dean rises, breath still harsh and deep. Sam's come iridescent as a snail's path in the lowlight. Dean turns his head, just enough to watch Sam from the corner of his eye, lips red and puffy as a welt in profile and his eyelashes casting shadows over his freckled cheeks. He looks young suddenly, creases smoothed away in the shade, jizz sliding down his thigh, looking wronged and thoroughly fucked.

"Don't say a fucking word," he says, voice gruff, an order and it hits Sam like a bucket of ice water. "Take the first shower."

Dean has no right to look as beautiful as he does breaking Sam's heart. Incandescent, smelling of Sam, shared blood and spit and come, defiant as ever.

Sam feels a little undignified and lost. Doesn't know what any of it means and where it leaves them. So when he does take a step toward the bathroom, he fights the urge to run. He's ashamed at the relief he feels closing the door.

When he finally emerges, towel wrapped tight around his waist, he isn't surprised to find his brother gone. Eyes prickling, feeling like he just might have fucked things up beyond repair, he searches around for his clothes. The first thing he does find is a note on the pillow, coordinates and a message:

_I'll find you._


End file.
